I keep getting flashes of places in Sydney. I've been dreaming about it lately. Mostly places that I modelled in... perhaps because I was forced to study them in minute detail for 3 or 4 hours a week... Brandling St., a dusty, crude barn with an outdoor toilet and stuffy artists, but the only place with a rope hanging from the ceiling to use for balance and creative poses... The Royal Arse Society in Lavender Bay... more stuffy artists, but a nice room above the art gallery. Surprisingly one of the only studios that had any kind of lighting system. By far the most appreciative teachers and students...

And I think about places I frequented on my bike... the ride from the icecream factory to work and back, I must have done nearly a thousand times... I can still see the place where the path winds under the train tracks near Wolli Creek. Sometimes the path would be flooded, and it is near enough to the sea that the water is very salty. I rode through the water once and it nearly ruined my bike. Sand and salt got in everywhere. So if it was flooded, I had to turn around and ride over the tracks at Tempe train station. I remember riding past the abortion clinic every day. Some days there would be one little old lady out there with a sign, talking to women going in and out. That was something I loved about Australia... there was no real debate about abortion... the whole country seemed to agree that it was none of their business. There has been a rise in opposition in the last few years, but compared to this country, they are insignificant.

But this appeared recently on Sydney Indy, and I thought it was a brilliant description of my all time favorite place in Sydney: Newtown...

Kicks in Newtown
Submitted by Anonymous on Mon, 07/05/2007 - 14:58. Creative Writing | Sydney Basin | Features

Twisted Bent & Messy on an afternoon in Newtown

Its night time, almost naturally you could say. The night scene shifts into gear along King St. unperterbed and unshaken; It just comes – it wants to come. It strikes down, not like lightning or a waterfall, but like a jovial parade, eager and keen and always on the lookout for kicks.

Here and there authority lies with the interesting people, the inspired citizens, the artistes, the show-offs, the fetishists, the married, the wild-haired eccentrics, the teenagers, the wailing hailing waiters and all the screaming terrorists of joy and freedom. They all have the power that make this street work; but not w-o-r-k in no ordinary sense, but work as a flow, a pool of intensity that never releases, a constant stream of consciousness played out in real terms; In the blink of an eye that intercepts spikey colourful haired punks walking past florists, radiant smooth couples that stick closer together as they breeze past ‘Adult Book’ shops, filthy nosey beautiful scum that squeal and squirm closer to the concrete in silent misery, the self styled beauties that strut with split second verve– all the types of flesh crawling havoc that fuels keen sight.

Nature is nowhere to be found and neither is darkness for both have slipped out to another perimeter – Nature to a less vibrant place and darkness behind lurking neon stabs of light.

Ordinariness and exuberance collide in this wicked sphere of activity. An utterly frenzied rabbit man in full costume runs on heat, jumping, bouncing down the street into cafes asking for straws, into shops asking for directions, into people, poles, stepping on feet, inspiring belly throttled laughs and ashen faces. It is these types of rogue sinners, that visit and revisit the towns sights like a pilgrimage, becoming regulars and thus believing wayfarers. They set foot along the street like revived mongrels and dandy rebels with the scarring lubricant of life smoothed over their every move.

Purpose ridden backpackers scamper blissfully but blindly – musing in their moment, wide open eyes guided by mystery and foolish infatuations. They revel in this place, so attuned to their dirty dirty corpses, unshaven beards and tired blitzing eyes.

Newtown seems to present all the wanton glories of the seeking traveler or just simply the seeker. The voyeur will find ashen faced beauties strutting forward smugly leaving behind a life of decay; frank keen animalesque queers meandering their peculiar and tasteful figures: ingratiating personal radiance, while sheltering inner magnitudes of pride. The thrill of Newtown is continuously spurred by these stark visions of real life passing, a real time showcase of street made streams of beauty.

The shops tug this uncanny boulevard of extremes as the only escape route to the its incessantly bubbling core. Vivid bright window fronts illuminate desires and tickle fantasies; creating distracting visions.

Street fed artists collide with the ratty boisterous social rednecks, help for the lost arrives from the back of a van, with queues for food, crowds huddle for music, the beats and shouts reach outer bounding blocks. Transport rattles along, puffing smoke and draining the air.

Above all motley bands of hangers on are rare, for Newtown thrives for the individual, who pulse at its expense, who feed off its insecurities and finally keel over as the stream never relents.